


The blood in my veins, the skin of my teeth

by Fatale (femme)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Future Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-17
Updated: 2013-06-17
Packaged: 2017-12-15 07:28:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/846908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/femme/pseuds/Fatale
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s not like Stiles thinks Derek’s a complete idiot, he was just under the impression that Derek was kind of terrible at anything other than looking great in a leather jacket.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The blood in my veins, the skin of my teeth

**Author's Note:**

> Is it a disclaimer if I’m just making excuses for my utter failure? I have not seen season three, I have no clue what happens to each character, so none of that’s taken into account. I watched the show for the first time a few days ago. I watched season two while weeping into my movie butter popcorn for Derek’s shitty life and being distracted by all the inexplicably attractive teenagers and chiseled jaws. Oh god, oh god. I don’t even know how I got here.
> 
> I know the show takes place in a fake town which the zip code places near Inskip, California, where Wikipedia tells me it snows (I KNOW, my half-assed research is absolutely bulletproof). I’m hesitant to tag this fluff, but for me, this is about as fluffy as I get -- neurotic, deeply sad fluff. Next time! I’ll do better next time. I keep thinking as soon as I finish this episode/write this fic, I’m going to be done with Teen Wolf. And then my brain goes, NOPE.
> 
> Thanks and love forever to Sapphire2309 for the speedy read-through!

An hour after graduating college, Stiles packs all his shit into his Jeep and drives home slowly, five miles under the speed limit. 

He’s staying with his dad until he gets his shit together, figures out what he wants to do with his life, make some kind of _plan_. He’s spent two years battling supernatural forces and four years trying to figure out how to be mundane, how to not tense up around strangers, four years sweating and shaking with fear on nights when the moon is full.

Stiles takes freelance web developing jobs when they come; it’s fun, easy work, gives him a little spending money. It’s surprising how quickly he and his dad fall into old patterns -- Stiles doing the grocery shopping, cooking, straightening up the house; his dad eating, shooting silent, worried glances at him when he thinks Stiles isn’t paying attention.

He’s not sure what his dad did without him, but the house hasn’t burned down, his dad isn’t skeletal, hasn’t had any more heart-attacks, so he’s managed okay.

 

\---

 

Stiles runs into Derek at the grocery store in between the frozen peas and waffles. Stiles scans his cart curiously -- frozen meals, potato chips, raw meat. 

Derek scratches the back of his neck absently, shifts from foot to foot. Stiles can’t remember Derek being this nervous, fidgety, but then the last time he’d seen Derek, he’d been a teenager and perpetually scared shitless of failure, of dying, of everything.

“Been a while,” Derek says.

It has. He hasn’t talked to Derek directly in four years, though his name has come up occasionally in snippets of conversations with Scott; more frequently with his dad, usually in conjunction with curse words and suspicious activity.

“You look the same,” Stiles says. He really does, even though Stiles knows he looks different; a couple of inches taller, a little more muscle, but with large eyes and a narrowness to his shoulders that ensures he’ll never be described as a stud. “So, um, where are you living these days?” Stiles feels his shoulders hunch involuntarily -- there’s something about even a nervous Derek that makes him feel young and stupid, with a shitty fake ID and chewed up nails.

“Family place,” Derek says. “I’m renovating it. You should - you could maybe come by, see what I’ve done. We could catch up.”

“Yeah, sure,” Stiles says. “Uh, later tonight? Tomorrow?”

“Tonight’s good. Any time is good, I guess. I’ll smell you coming.”

“Wow, forgot how creepy that was,” Stiles says. 

 

\---

 

Stiles stops by his dad’s house, unpacks the groceries, makes a casserole for his dad, and a second one for Derek. He puts it in the fridge, takes it out, puts it back in. He leaves his dad a note saying he’ll be out late. 

He changes his clothes twice, refuses to think about why, tells himself to stop being a loser and changes back into his original outfit.

At the last minute, Stiles takes the casserole. He doesn’t know if Derek likes turkey tetrazzini, then remembers the sad state of his shopping cart and figures Derek will eat whatever.

 

\---

 

The Hale house is still burned out, nearly gutted, a skeleton of charred walls that reminds him of just how shitty and cruel humans can be. The few remaining pieces of furniture are covered with dusty white sheets, and all the ground-level windows are busted out. 

If Derek’s spent four years renovating, Stiles wants to tell him he missed a spot.

“It looks - great,” Stiles lies. The only sign the house shows of being inhabited is a pull-up bar installed in what Stiles is pretty sure used to be the sitting room.

 

\---

 

“You didn’t have to bring food,” Derek says eventually, after Stiles has been given the grand tour and sees a kitchen table, obviously new, with a half-full glass of milk on top. He wonders if Derek needs more milk for his extra-sharp canines. 

“It’s not only for you, I need to eat, too.”

“That’s fine,” Derek says, “It’s just -- I have food.”

Stiles can’t stop the soft snort that escapes. “I saw your food. Do you have any plates?”

“I have one,” Derek says. “And a glass.” He gestures at the milk.

“You have one plate and one glass,” Stiles says flatly. “Seriously?”

“Why would I need more?” Derek asks, twitching, and Stiles can tell it’s costing him, not to smack the back of Stiles’ head or roll his eyes.

There’s something funny about only having a place setting for one, but also kind of terrible and sad. “Do you have more than one fork?” Stiles tries.

Derek scratches his belly. “I didn’t expect you to bring food,” he says defensively. He rummages around the drawers a bit, before triumphantly holding up two forks. 

Stiles crouches down and heats up the casserole in the faux-wood paneled 1990’s microwave sitting on the floor alone in the corner, since as Derek explains, most of the other outlets are touchy, dozens of tiny electrical fires waiting to happen. Stiles thinks about asking Derek if he has any appliances made before this century, while Derek tops off his milk. Terrifyingly, he has three gallons of the stuff crammed into his refrigerator. 

They eat at the table, forks scraping across the bottom of the glass dish, sharing the milk as Stiles tells Derek about drafty dorm rooms, playing lacrosse for a college team, getting drunk before finals and throwing up in the middle of an exam, while Derek closes his eyes and nods along with a faint smile like he can picture it. 

 

\---

 

Derek had said Stiles could come over any time. Stiles manfully waits two days before he doubles his Mexican casserole recipe and sets one out to take to Derek.

 

\---

 

Derek doesn’t seem surprised to see him. 

“I got another plate,” Derek says. 

Stiles could be bitchy and point out that they don’t match, he could ask where it came from, because who even knows. He could ask what would happen if more than two people wanted to eat at Derek’s house at a time, if they’d be expected to take turns, but Stiles recognizes a gesture when he sees one. 

And who else would be crazy or stupid enough to eat here anyway.

“Thanks,” Stiles says and takes the offered plate.

 

\---

 

“What do you do with your time?” Stiles asks.

“I told you -- renovate.”

Stiles looks around pointedly. “And what do you do with the time you’re not renovating?” What he means is, _And what do you do with the other twenty three and a half hours left in the day?_

“Uh, think about stuff.”

“Brood, you mean.”

“A little bit of that,” Derek agrees.

 

\---

 

“Have you ever thought of creating more wolves?” Stiles thinks -- for company, for something, _anything_ , to do. The house is horrible; the loneliness seems seeped into the walls, hangs around Derek like a dark cloud. 

“No,” Derek says shortly, his eyes gleam for a moment and then they’re back to normal -- distant, preoccupied, a little sad. 

Stiles lets the subject drop. 

 

\---

 

Lightning cracks across the sky. Derek narrows his eyes a little, peering out of the window. “You can stay here tonight -- I don’t think your Jeep will make it back to town. Can’t believe you still drive that piece of crap.”

“Hey,” Stiles says weakly. He can’t believe he still drives that piece of crap, either.

“I have a mattress.”

“Of course you do,” Stiles says.

“An air mattress,” Derek amends.

 

\---

 

Stiles isn’t sure what he expected, but Derek showed him to a room and left, so Stiles stripped down to his boxers and slid under the covers, the air mattress shifting precariously under his weight. A few minutes later, Derek showed up shirtless, in drawstring flannel sleep pants and wordlessly scooted in next to him.

Derek snores softly when he sleeps, small rumbling gusts of breath that couldn’t even remotely pass for human. The windows in his bedroom look new, the rain slaps against the glass in a steady, staccato beat, while the sky flashes and grumbles. It reminds him of Fourth of July picnics, eating hotdogs until he and Scott got sick, holding onto three sparklers at time, singeing the tips of their fingers. It reminds him of Erica, and of Jackson, who was kind of a huge dick, but suffered so terribly in the end.

Stiles shifts a little, slides around on the mattress to get comfortable, with Derek facing away from him, curled tightly in on himself, his shoulders tense even in sleep.

 

\---

 

Stiles wakes up feeling alert, a holdover from early morning lacrosse practices. He gets up, yawns, and stretches to pull the knots out of his muscles. He’s surprised the noise doesn't wake Derek. It makes sense, he guesses; Derek’s more of a night person.

He pads downstairs, makes himself a cup of coffee. Curiosity wins out and he starts snooping through the drawers and cabinets. He finds: A hotplate, a box of dried pasta, a half-melted spatula, one sweet & low packet, coffee, a dozen takeout menus for local restaurants with the phone numbers highlighted. 

He’s no stranger to people needing something from him, wanting him as backup, a safety net. But Derek may be the one person more aimless, more confused by life than Stiles himself. 

_This dumbass needs me_ , Stiles thinks absently, sipping his coffee. 

 

\---

 

Stiles brings dinner over every night, until one day Derek calls to say not to bother bringing food, he’s going to cook. 

“Do you think I should get a job?” Derek asks, pork chops sizzling as he flips them over in the pan. Two potatoes sit shriveled in the microwave. Stiles didn’t bother to tell him they’d have probably been better in the oven. 

“What kind of job?”

“No clue,” Derek says.

“Did you even graduate high school?” Stiles doesn’t want to ask, knows this is likely a sensitive topic with Derek, but it’s kind of important. 

“I have a GED,” Derek answers. “What did you think I did for four years?”

“Renovate?”

Derek smiles faintly. “It doesn’t take up as much of my time as you’d think.” He pulls the skillet off the burner, spears the pork chops, puts them on the plates. 

They’re good, a deep golden brown around the edges. They need salt, but Derek doesn’t have any. Stiles makes a mental note to bring some over the next time he stops by.

“What brought this on?” Stiles asks, adding butter to his potato. It’s tough, chewy on the outside; it’s the thought that counts. 

“Seemed fair to reciprocate,” Derek says. “It’s no big -- this is the only meal I know how to make.”

Stiles thinks it’s wise to not point out that it’s only half made, actually, but he says, “Thanks. You got a new skillet and uh, some new forks.”

“Yeah, it seemed -- it’s been a long time since I’ve needed those things,” Derek says, ducking his head, studying his potato with far more attention than it warrants.

 

\---

 

“I once had a job when I was sixteen,” Derek tells him. “I bagged groceries at the supermarket.”

“I would have thought landscaping or lumberjack,“ Stiles says honestly.

Derek frowns. “Too skinny for those jobs. I didn’t need the money, really. I have an inheritance.”

Stiles isn’t surprised, he can tell the house had been beautiful before it was decimated; he has a harder time picturing Derek weedy and sixteen. Derek likely got a big insurance payout, but neither wants to talk about how he got it.

Derek continues, “Apparently I had a bad attitude.”

“What told you that?”

“My boss, when he was firing me.”

“And does he live to tell the tale?” He’s only half-joking.

Derek’s eyes glint, amused and a little feral. “Of course -- I told you I was skinny then.”

 

\---

 

Stiles works all day setting up a website for a start-up company, futzing with the jQuery longer than necessary. He doesn’t have time to cook, but he still wants to see Derek.

When he raises his arm to knock on the door, Derek pulls it open before his knuckles even make contact. 

Derek looks at him, brow furrowed. “Are you going to cook again tonight?” he asks, hopefully, kind of heart-breakingly.

“I’m not your maid or your cook,” Stiles says. “Fuck this -- we’re going out.”

 

\---

 

This could be construed as a date. Stiles sinks lower into the bench, red pleather squeaking embarrassingly against his ass. Derek looks cagey, confused. He drums his fingers, drinks three glasses of water in quick succession; their waitress looks increasingly mutinous. 

“Order whatever, I’ll pay,” Derek offers.

“I’m not a damsel in distress,” Stiles says. “We can go Dutch.”

“No, no, it’s not-- this isn’t. I mean, I don’t expect you to put out if I pay,” Derek says in a rush, looking embarrassed and little horrified at the words leaving his mouth. 

Stiles feels a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, tries to quash it down at the last moment. He can sympathize. “Put out?”

“Shut up, Stiles. You have student loans. I have -- I could pay, is all.”

Stiles doesn’t have student loans -- he got a full ride scholarship, he doesn’t pay rent to his dad. The jobs he takes buy groceries, fancy coffees with whipped cream. He has plenty of money, but Derek offering to pay is disarmingly sweet and pretty much cements this as a date. 

“Fine,” Stiles says, “but next time I’ll pay.”

“Yeah,” Derek says, visibly relaxing. “Next time.”

 

\---

 

Belly full of pasta, bill paid, they linger on the sidewalk, illuminated by the warm glow of the restaurant window’s light. Stiles hates this part of a date -- the foot shuffle, the wondering if he’s going to get laid or not.

“Look, I -- this has been fun,” Derek says doubtfully. “But I should get home.”

“Want me to come with?” Stiles asks, even though it’s early and he always stays late at Derek’s. It seems nicer than assuming. It is still Derek’s house. Stiles wishes, briefly, that they hadn’t taken separate cars.

“Do whatever you want,” Derek says, but he grabs Stiles’ hand anyway.

 

\---

 

It’s fucking freezing outside, the first snow of the year dots the ground, sticks to the ends of Derek’s dark eyelashes in a way that makes Stiles’ belly go tight with longing. 

He’s huddled close to Derek for warmth while Derek jangles his keys, trying to get the front door lock unstuck. Stiles doesn’t know why Derek bothers, if Stiles wanted to rob his house and steal his crappy furniture and boxed pasta, he’d probably use one of the open windows. 

In a flash of the kind of stupid mindless bravery that got him through high school, Stiles turns, presses his lips to Derek’s, catching the corner of his mouth. 

After a startled pause, Derek tilts back a little for full contact, kisses him quickly and pulls away. It’s dry, chaste, unbearably sweet. 

Stiles licks his lips, says, “I’m not a virgin.”

“That’s great,” Derek says, looking like he finds it anything but.

“It’s just, I’m not sure what we’re doing here,” Stiles says, momentarily breathless by the idea that he’s read this whole situation terrifyingly, horrifically wrong. He might have to leave the state from sheer humiliation, flee the country. Move into the mountains, have all his conversations with goats, and never shave.

Derek cants his head in a motion wildly reminiscent of a dog, which Stiles would point out, except he likes his bones whole. 

After a moment, Derek turns to face him, leans close, slides his hand around the back of Stiles’ neck, the blunt edges of his nails dragging across skin and kisses him again, mouth hot, open. 

 

\---

 

“I’m taking online college courses,” Derek says by way of explanation when he produces a laptop, and sits on the edge of the mattress with it perched on his knees.

“Do you even know how to use a computer?” Stiles asks doubtfully.

“Yes,” Derek replies harshly, opens the laptop and logs onto the campus website. 

Like a champ, like goddamn fool in love, Stiles ignores the fact that Derek only uses his index fingers to type. 

After ten minutes of unbearable chicken pecking, Stiles asks, “Do you want my help?”

“No,” Derek answers, but he scoots back to make room for Stiles and Stiles hauls himself into a sitting position next to him, turns the laptop towards him and scans over the question. “Tell me what you want to say and I’ll type it out for you.”

Stiles is surprised at the depth of Derek’s knowledge of romantic literature, his depth of thought. It’s not like he thinks Derek’s a complete idiot, he was just under the impression that Derek was kind of terrible at anything other than looking great in a leather jacket. No wonder none of his plans work out – Derek is an idealist, a romantic, caught up in a world that demands harsh pragmatism. 

Stiles could be wrong about that, though.

“I would have bitten Keats to save him, if I had known him,” Derek says wistfully. “Poor fucker.”

“That’s--That’s nice,” Stiles says.

“You know, if I didn’t accidentally eat him instead,” Derek says.

“I’m sure Keats would have thanked you, if you held off on the eating, that is.”

 

\---

 

There’s a can of Benjamin Moore paint at the foot of the stairs, the top label declares it “electric orange.” 

“Dear God,” Stiles breathes, reading the label upside down.

Derek shrugs. “I like orange.”

“What’s not to like? It’s the color of traffic cones, caution lights, crossing guard vests.”

“Or,” Derek says slowly, fishing for words, “Autumn, sunsets…fire.”

“Hey,” Stiles says, covering Derek’s white-knuckled fist with his hand. “What about blue?”

“I like that, too,” Derek says. 

“I’m throwing the orange paint away,” Stiles informs him.

“Okay,” Derek says. He sounds relieved.

 

\---

 

He wakes up to Derek scrolling down a webpage, pictures of mattresses flashing too quickly for his eyes to follow. 

“How long have you been looking at these?” Stiles says, stretching and peering over Derek’s shoulder. The first thing he generally does when sleeping over at someone’s house is jump up to brush his teeth, but morning breath be damned, he’s sure Derek’s already aware of all his messier bodily functions.

“A while,” Derek hedges. “I can’t -- there are too many choices. I don’t even give a fuck, I just want a real mattress.”

Stiles says, “Your indecision disguised as apathy is seriously frightening.”

Derek looks impatient, tired of this bullshit. He hits the down button aggressively. “I don’t even care,” he insists, disgusted. “You pick it out.” 

He leaves his American Express card on the floor next to the laptop. 

Stiles crouches down, scrolls through the options until he finds one that’s reasonably priced, has good lumbar support, and is sturdy enough for Derek. Before checking out, he adds a rug to the cart that he thinks would look decent with the blue walls. His feet get cold in the mornings.

 

\---

 

His books end up piled on the coffee table he uncovered and dusted a few weeks ago. There’s a dry-erase board propped against the couch that helps him keep track of his jobs and their various deadlines. Stiles cooks, Derek cleans. He does the grocery shopping -- he’s still a little creeped out by the sheer volume of meat Derek buys -- but Derek does the laundry, so it’s a fair trade.

In the evenings, Stiles types Derek’s papers for him while Derek lies on the bed and composes his thoughts. Sometimes he writes them out long-hand and Stiles transcribes them in the morning. Those nights, they watch TV on the couch. 

Derek likes romantic comedies, he doesn’t get why people would watch horror movies for fun. It doesn’t need to be said that Derek finds real life horrifying enough. The one time Stiles convinces him to watch one, Derek’s heartbeat speeds up, his eyes flash red and Stiles hits the eject button on the DVD player as fast as he can. They watch _Love Actually_ instead.

Derek doesn’t like impressionists, though he’s convinced Degas was a werewolf, an opinion based on absolutely no proof. The ballerinas look vulnerable, like prey, Derek says.

Derek buys orange bathroom towels and Stiles thinks he has an unhealthy fixation on the color. 

They argue about anything, everything. 

After the worst of the arguments, Derek presses Stiles into the mattress, licks wet trails down his spine. He kisses the inside of Stiles’ wrists where his pulse hammers beneath his lips, his knobby, scarred-up knees. Stiles arches into Derek’s touch, bites his bottom lip, sweats and pants, asking silently for more.

 

\---

 

On the days before a full moon, Derek’s tense; he paces, he fidgets and snarls at the coffeemaker, the microwave for not working faster. 

“You could turn,” Stiles says in the evening, he doesn’t mind. Derek’s present enough in his wolfed-out form that he’s not really afraid of being mauled, much.

Derek shakes his head. “I don’t need to. I mean, I kind of want to, but it’s good practice not turning. My thoughts are clearer -- I don’t like being out of control.”

“I could leave,” Stiles offers. “If that would help.”

“No – You, uh, you make it easier. To stay me, to stay human.” Derek’s eyes, hazy green almost swallowed up by pupil, cut towards him. “You make me more -- present, I guess.” 

“Okay,” Stiles says softly, “I’ll be here then.”

“Yeah,” Derek says, brow smoothing out, lines of worry melting away until he just looks sleepy, young. “All night?” he asks.

“For as long as you’ll have me,” Stiles says, and folds his body around Derek’s, holds him tight against his chest until his steady, too-fast heartbeat lulls them both to sleep.

 

 

The end.


End file.
